


I, Jessica

by athaclena



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Heaven, POV Second Person, mostly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6906808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athaclena/pseuds/athaclena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jessica Moore's life from her arrival at Stanford onwards, in a series of snapshots. Short and snappy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I, Jessica

**Author's Note:**

> Additional content warnings for, well, everything that happened to Jess in the series; strong language; brief sexual content. Contains minor headcanons. Author does not own these characters but this is an original story. Please do not copy, repost, claim as your own, etc. Beta'd by the lovely wobblyheadeddollcaper.

You're eighteen and you made it here: Stanford, everything you've been working towards for four years. You see him on campus a few times. He stands out above the crowd, and you like that. You do too.

Nineteen, and you share a Modern History class with him. His hair has grown out. You identify him as one of those boys: rebelling against a strict background, poorer than he'd like, sensitive about it. Full ride kid. He's very clever though, and not afraid to show it. Not afraid of anything that you can see. You like that.

You like enigmas, and you're twenty and in a bar, cleavage enough to keep you from being ID'd, why shouldn't sexism work for you this time? He's next to you at the bar and you smile at him, and he blushes, and you buy him a drink to watch the colour move across his cheeks. He's taller than you even in these heels, and you like that. You watch him move through the crowd, always slightly apart from it, screaming trying too hard to the rarefied senses of your social group.

A week later, your best friend starts dating Brady, and he introduces you properly. His name is Sam, and he is kinder than you ever thought a person could be, and he worships you in bed like you are a goddess. His hands are long and broad, his tongue hot and wet, his dick perfect and always hard when you need it. You spend six weeks falling into bed with him whenever you both have the opportunity, even if the opportunity is five minutes between classes in a closet.

Coming down from your endorphin high, you fall in love together, whispering tender hopes and dreams and fears into the night. He is guarded and secretive even now; you suspect childhood abandonment, and you don't push for more details than he's comfortable with. You trust him. He wouldn't keep anything dangerous a secret.

You move in together for your senior year. It makes sense financially and socially, and you are sure he is it for you. You will happily be the married out of college statistic with him. Everything is perfect.

His brother comes to the house one night out of the blue, and Sam leaves with him for the weekend, just before the LSAT. You are a little afraid; the way he talks about his family is still strange, but you've only heard good things about Dean, under all the brotherly complaints and horror stories, so you give them your blessing and settle in for a weekend's uninterrupted studying.

You are twenty-one and you die in terror and pain as a creature you could never have imagined says and does unspeakable things to you. You linger near your body when it is over, trapped by the monster's will and your own inability to move on. You see him realise the truth of your death, and watch his brother save him for the second time. You weep silently for the life you should have had and turn towards the light.

You are four, and Gramps spins you by the arms in the garden until you both fall over, too dizzy to move, laughing hysterically together. The sun is warm on your back and you smell your father's roses.

You're twelve and your mother shows you how to put make-up on. You are on the cusp of womanhood, childhood still within reach, and you are fragile with the awareness of it. She soothes the ragged edges of it and makes you less afraid of the future, less mournful of the past. You play with each other's hair and you have never seen her so beautiful.

Sixteen, and you've been dumped by your first boyfriend when you sprained his wrist after he tried to get to third base without your permission. You'd saved up for a meal at a restaurant with him, and put a deposit down for a set menu, a week before the groping/spraining/dumping incident. You don't want to lose your money, so you swallow your rage and confusion and hurt over his betrayal and take your best friend out instead. The two of you have an amazing night, treated like royalty by the staff. The tasting menu stretches your palate and you feel so sophisticated and adult, for the first time.

You are pinned on the bed by Sam's hands on your ribs and his tongue on your clitoris. You are twenty and you have never felt this intensity before. He licks around your cunt with agonising attention to detail and you gasp out his name, perfectly caught on the edge of orgasm for longer than you thought possible. He slides a long finger inside you and moves it perfectly in time with his mouth, and you come so hard that your fingers leave bruises on his arms and you are shaking and barely coherent for minutes afterwards. He kisses you deeply, lips plush and swollen and tasting of you, and you realise you are falling in love with this man as you wrap your legs around his waist and draw him inside you.

You are nine years old and you are on top of the world, staring down the slope of the steepest hill you've ever been on, perched on your new bike. The anticipation builds until you know you have to move now or give it up, and you push yourself off and down the hill, holding on for dear life, tasting adrenaline in your mouth and shouting your victory to the world.

You are nineteen and you worked for a solid week on a paper for your weakest class, ignoring all distractions until it's finished. You turn it in a day early and spend the extra day second guessing yourself before sleeping away your exhaustion and moving on to the next class, the next paper, the next lab report. A week goes by, and you get the paper back: 97%, the highest mark you've ever had. The lecturer reads out excerpts from it to the rest of the class and you glow with anonymous pride. She calls you at the end of the lecture and tells you that you have a gift for this, and have you considered going for the LSATs? You have never been so proud, nor so inspired.

The girl to your side elbows you and you tumble to the ground. You are fifteen and you want to win this race; you pick yourself up and use your anger to regain ground, the length of your stride an advantage finally. Your throat is burning with every breath, but your legs are sure and fast, and you make up the lost time and more, out-pacing all the other competitors to win the 1600m title. The winning is sweeter; sweeter still the look on the girl's face when you thank her for making your victory more remarkable than it would have been otherwise.

You are twenty-one and Sam is by your side looking into the window of a jewellery store. One day, he says. If you want to. You laugh at his doubts and kiss him soundly, of course you will, when the time is right and you can both afford it. You love him so much it hurts. His eyes shine. He wakes up that night screaming and you check the batteries in the smoke alarms together, just to be sure. Falling back asleep takes a long time. You murmur soothing things to him, his head pillowed on your chest. You whisper, Mrs Winchester and Mr Moore, and you name your twelve children, and he laughs, and finally sleeps.

And you lie there in the dark and for the first time you think no, get up, move, this is not right, you're going to die here in two nights' time, but it slips away from you and you are ten years old and dancing with your father at a wedding and he smiles down at you and tells you that one day, you'll be doing this at your wedding, and your heart aches briefly but you don't know why because you love your father more than anything and you'll always be his little girl even when you're properly big.

You're twelve, and Gramps is teaching you how to use a shotgun while your parents are away, don't tell them Jessie, they won't approve. The noise deafens you and you really don't want to shoot anything that's actually alive, but you love the smile on his face and the thrill of shooting something out of the sky. Your shoulder is bruised for a week but every ache makes you smile secretly.

You're twenty and in a bar and your cleavage is enough to keep you from being ID'd, because sexism sometimes works for you, and as the bartender takes your money you see an arrow on his hand and it glows for the briefest fraction of a second and you think that's not right, that didn't happen, and then you turn round and there's the beautiful tall boy you've seen around a few times. You give him your best smile and buy him a drink just to watch him blush, your heart beating faster all the time.

You're nineteen and feeling academic pride, sixteen and in a restaurant, twenty and coming so hard your eyes stop working, four and flying, seven and on a swing, twenty-one and pinned against a wall at a party with Sam's hand muffling your moans, fifteen and winning a race, twelve and fourteen and eleven and three and twenty-one.

You're in a bar, under-age by a few months but your top and height got you in, and the bartender is glowing and pierces your heart with an arrow and you watch yourself not even notice it, how can you not see it happen? You scream at yourself as you start to fall in love with Sam. You weep for the future you should have had, for your lost dreams, for Sam's sorrow and grief most of all. You are trapped inside your own happiest memories and you cannot get out. You watch it all and are carried away by the next one. Easier to forget.

You forget very well, around and around and around, until you notice something new, such a small change. You are twenty and Sam's head is between your legs, hands splayed gently but firmly over your ribs, and you are gasping out your pleas for faster, more Sam please God, when he stops and looks up at you and says, tremulously, “I love you, Jessica,” and you cradle his face and the tears from his eyes and whisper it back, “I love you too Sam, God I love you so much,” and then the memory washes away and you are nine years old and really fucking confused. Only for a moment before the feeling washes away in the exhilaration of defeating the hill.

It happens again, outside the jewellery store, and again in the closet at Brady's party, and each time you feel that something has changed, Sam is really there, before he is pulled away and you return to your memories alone, around and around. You notice that not every memory of Sam contains Real Sam, and slowly, carefully, you begin to hold on to your awareness for longer and longer.

You are twenty-one years old and you are holding Sam against your chest in the night, making him laugh after a nightmare, and you realise that you are there on the bed, and you are here watching the bed, and all that you need to do is open the door and leave.

And you do.

**Author's Note:**

> This was partly inspired by someone I follow commenting on how much they dislike Jess fics because she's normally a reader-insert character. And she is, of course, because her character is basically non-existent in Supernatural, so it's not actually possible to write the "real" Jessica; the poor lamb was created only to be killed. I took what we do know about her (very, very little) and the rest of it is more what I thought she would have to be like for Sam to fall in love with her in the first place.
> 
> Originally, this was going to be longer. I might write more of it, but I have other things that I'm working on. Let me know what you think! I'm also on tumblr as knittedgauntlets, which I would link to, but I don't know how. Hopefully I will eventually.
> 
> Edit: retrospective writer's wankery about this fic is [here](http://knittedgauntlets.tumblr.com/post/149509999972/writing-i-jessica). (I learned how to link.)


End file.
